A Slice of RL-3
by MountainBro
Summary: Another day in the life of Sergeant RL-3. One-shot.


**A Slice of RL-3**

"_Another glorious day in the U.S. army!"_

* * *

"Salutations, Commander! Sergeant RL-3, gutsy-class robotic soldier, reporting for duty!" RL-3's mechanical voice was respectful, his intelligence unit having commanded him to greet his CO once again.

The sound of an audible yawn was recorded and the three optical sensors atop his round main chassis focused on his Commander. The man's dark blonde hair was cut short, as was proper for an officer. His beard hadn't been shaven for a few days, obvious by the visible stubble on the Commander's face. His brown eyes were tired but alert when he looked at the floating Mister Gutsy, one hand holding an ice-cold bottle, filled with America's most sought after soft drink.

"At ease Sergeant." The overworked voice of the Commander allowed him to relax. He loosened up by powering down the EM coils in his integrated plasma guns by twenty-five percent, hoping that would satisfy the man. His current Commander was a curious person. Very much a frontline soldier like himself, the Commander was always leading the troops into battle, usually without further backup, and had saved him from non-functionality on more than one occasion, gaining the respect of his intelligence unit in the process.

The commanding officers of RL-3's previous outfits had all been different. The first one had usually sent him out with competent, but single minded Gutsys to assault dug-in communist positions while staying behind in the trench-line, reacting mostly surprised when he returned with a completed mission objective and minimal damage to his systems. Robotic units were considered expendable then, often being tasked with suicide missions. He hadn't complained, of course, because at least he'd seen major combat operations often, allowing him to crush the filthy communist invaders overstaying their welcome on his homeland.

Then command structures had been disrupted for one hundred-ninety-eight years, seventy-three days, four hours, seventeen minutes and two seconds. He had been non-functional for a long time, after his transport plane was disabled mid-air by multiple major EMP discharges, until he'd been repaired and brought back online. His next CO had been singularly incompetent, the Sergeant decided, using him to protect supply missions and civilian Handy models. Civilians! Him! A prototype, state-of-the-art NCO model Mr. Gutsy! What a waste of his extensive capabilities.

So he had been glad, if at first sceptical, when the brass had seemingly ordered a transfer to his current Commander's unit. At least that's what his personality module decided he felt at the time.

Instead of sporadic combat against disorganized communist forces, his new unit saw action constantly. He was finally able to fight again, not against hilariously outmatched opponents, but facing actual, dangerous communist formations. Even when damaged, he was still allowed to guard the Commander's forward operating base against infiltration by spies and the local populace. He still didn't like the annoying civilian liaison robot the Commander allowed in their base, but overall he was quite glad for his current assignment. As glad as his personality module allowed him to be anyway.

"Sir! I report full combat readiness. Assignments?"

The Commander took a large swig from the bottle, before turning to face him fully, seemingly studying him. "Sergeant, do you ever sleep?"

The question surprised him slightly, not that he could actually feel surprise. He thought the answer obvious but still replied dutifully. "No, Sir! My power core allows me to operate at full capacity for as long as required, Sir."

The Commander nodded slowly, still watching him intently. "You have any opinions on the various enemies we're fighting?"

He didn't understand why the Commander didn't call their foes what they were, communist invaders, but maybe that was some new language policy coming from the top. It was above his pay-grade to question in any case. "Kill them all, Sir, let God sort them out!" Sometimes, his pre-programmed responses fit better than he thought possible when he was first activated. Often far better than a tediously calculated custom response.

If he read the Commander's body language correctly, he was slightly amused at that. "You have no preference in how we engage the enemy as long as we kill them all?"

The Sergeant bobbed slightly above the dirt, considering the question. He wasn't damaged and his fading military paint job had still never been seriously scorched. The Commander was likely testing his combat readiness again, having repaired the Sergeant just last week after a large calibre sniper rifle damaged one of his optical sensors. No matter, he knew what was necessary to say. "No, Sir! That is your prerogative to decide. There's nothing I like better than making some other poor bastard die for his country."

The Commander was definitely smiling now and Sergeant RL-3 was confident that he had answered correctly. The young CO gestured to the gate of their compound. "Well, lucky for you, we're heading out again today. There's some business to take care of downtown, and we're very likely to see heavy combat."

He shifted two of his mechanical arms in an approving gesture. "I'm ready for action, Sir!"

The Commander nodded. "I'll be along shortly. Just got to gear up. Wait here, Sergeant."

RL-3 watched the man head back into the makeshift base. The rusty and inelegantly meshed together metal sheets making up the medium-sized hut spoke of the truly desperate times the U.S. Army had fallen on. All the more reason to rid the country of its communist infection. When the flimsy door shut behind the Commander, RL-3 turned around on its axis to scan the perimeter one more time.

You could never be too sure when the Communists would attack.

* * *

Fighting in urban areas always excited Sergeant RL-3's circuits. Communist infiltrators could be hiding everywhere and his optical sensors were working at maximum capacity to check their surroundings.

He approved of his CO's combat abilities and choice of weaponry. The large plasma rifle the young man used was similar to his own armaments, and regularly reduced enemies to piles of glowing green goop. As expected, they had carved their way through the ruins at acceptable speeds, killing attacking communist forces as they went. Their destination was the compound of an allied outfit the Commander regularly visited, likely to gather reports or intelligence from them. He didn't really know or care, usually staying outside to patrol the area for more Communists stupid enough to try anything.

When another one of the mutated soldiers charged, RL-3 quickly put it down with two shots from his integrated plasma casters, even as his Commander reduced the red bastard's head to green mist with an impressive shot. RL-3 was pleasantly surprised when he first found out that his CO was more than capable of keeping up with him in terms of speed and accuracy, something previous human members of his units hadn't been capable of.

The man wisely picked up the hunting rifle of the fallen enemy and unloaded the magazine, pocketing it. This deep behind enemy lines, supplies were scarce and denying the enemy ammunition, if they happened upon their fallen comrade, was a prudent decision.

The Commander turned to him, after throwing away the weak and now useless rifle. "We're almost there, Sarge." The man paused and inspected the area when RL-3 decided not to respond to the superfluous announcement. A few large corpses riddled the now quiet combat zone and even more green piles of goo were spattered on the ground between them, still hot and steaming. The Commander looked at him again. Brown eyes inspected his armored core and metal appendages, for damage, the Sergeant suspected.

"Thoughts on our mission so far?"

If Sergeant RL-3 could sound smug, he would now.

"There's nothing better than the smell of fresh plasma in the morning, Sir!"


End file.
